


swingers gotta swing

by aelescribe



Category: Dungeons and Daddies (Podcast)
Genre: Bisexual Glenn Close, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, fellas is it gay to have sex with men because having sex with women reminds you of your dead wife?, we know glennry hatefucks in the backseat. move past it.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:53:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28777116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aelescribe/pseuds/aelescribe
Summary: It’s less Glenn being gay and more necessity. Everyone’s got to have intimacy, right? This is how he gets his fix. It’s just like anything else. Henry is his best bet, since Ron is deeply in love and Darryl is deeply repressed.As an anxious man in a functioning polyamorous marriage, Henry Oak is both of those things.
Relationships: Glenn Close/Henry Oak
Comments: 10
Kudos: 23





	swingers gotta swing

**Author's Note:**

> this is for anthony burch and all my other bisexual mans out there lesbian solidarity from me to you
> 
> also if you squint henry is nb? feel free to adopt that into your reading as you see fit :) takes place sometime earlyy but before tower of terry i don’t remember the early timeline too well
> 
> they are VERY HORNY but its more implied than anything maybe one day there will be a s*xy sequel haha jk... unless O_O

Glenn loves sitting in the back.

He is a notorious literal backseat driver, asserts his dominance over radio control, but the world of the backseat is completely its own. There is merit to the sky, the surge of road ahead in the front seat, but the backseat offers shelter. 

Somewhere to hide. Somewhere to think.

That, and the smoke doesn’t drift all the way to the back and piss everyone off. Not that he cares. He’s perfectly content to sequester himself to a space where he’s not intruding. He tips his head back and lets melancholia take hold. 

Absurd rock formations and willowy trees bend the landscape around them. Violet sunset dips into twilight. A hush takes over, the dimming road lit by the Odyssey’s beams.

Ron has headphones in, already falling asleep in the front seat. He looks younger when he sleeps, the wrinkles of his father melting away, revealing the boy that he’s always been. 

Darryl’s sunglasses are tipped down his brow. Why the hell he wears sunglasses at night, Glenn never thinks to ask. It’s a move he respects.

Henry sits beside him in the backseat, arms crossed. 

What he’s angry about Glenn never picks up on. There’s always something gnawing his cheek, knitting his brow, threatening to eat him from the inside out. It got more intense after losing Lark and Sparrow again.

Henry is someone who would actually benefit from smoking weed. He’s so fucking uptight it’s unbearable. It’s hilarious. Gives Glenn secondhand anxiety just looking at him. He lets Henry’s forehead throb for a moment before rolling—the dexterity it takes to do this in a moving car is a party trick he loves showing off—and offering him his nightly joint. 

He doesn’t expect Henry to take it.

“Wait, really?” Glenn’s voice is low, quiet, wondering if he’s intruding simply by asking.

Henry balances the joint between his index and middle finger with careful consideration. Shaking, he brings it to his mouth. Glenn lights the end before he can change his mind. In the palm of his hand, that small light illuminates the verdant green of Henry’s eyes, flickering bright behind his glasses. There’s a reverence there that is quite becoming.

Henry Oak takes a long inhale, exhaling a cloud even Glenn finds impressive, nary a cough or throat clearing to be heard. He doesn’t even have a joke—he doesn’t want to ruin the sudden quiet between them. The backseat space is sacred for a reason. 

“Who farted?” Ron whines, shattering the illusion.

He can hear Darryl’s teeth gritting from the driver’s seat. His seat slams back into Glenn’s knees. Glenn hisses. “Glenn, how many times do I have to ask you to roll the window down?”

“Sorry, Darryl, my bad.” Henry’s voice has dropped a register from a single drag.

”Oh, uh... okay. Just remember for next time, Henry.” The instant shift following his outburst is quite funny. Henry avoids his eye.

He reaches over Glenn to crack the window. Something in Glenn’s stomach churns when that arm brushes his belted chest. 

He takes a slightly smaller drag and hands it back to Glenn. They exchange it a few more times, mostly silent. Glenn observes the droop of Henry’s lids, the chapped skin on his lips from nervous chewing, the flush of his pale cheeks revealing freckles.

“I’m impressed,” Glenn admits. The whisper of his voice has everything to do with dry mouth and nothing to do with druids. 

“It’s all about breath support.” Henry pats his tummy. “If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do this right.”

“Of course you’d find the _correct_ way to smoke weed,” Glenn chuckles. “But don’t think you can usurp the expert’s throne.”

“I don’t consider myself an expert. What puts me off is the history around incarceration and policing targeting black people and other people of color for small possession crimes leading to profit for the state, only for legalization which does not include decriminalization or freeing incarcerated people so the market only becomes profitable by and for wealthy white legislators, and ethically, as a consumer, how can I—” 

“Just send me the article when we get back,” Glenn sighs. 

Henry looks at him and chuckles. “All right. You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Glenn settles into the headrest and watches him. The end of the joint flickers faintly. The stars are falling down over them. Ron seems to be back asleep, and Darryl’s expression is unreadable by the light of the dashboard. 

Whatever. They’re probably not paying attention. Glenn doesn’t care if they are.

The familiar sweet fog settles over him. His arm extends across the back of Henry’s seat, fingers catching the collar of his shirt. The fabric is a sturdy textile Glenn can’t help tugging. He gets no reaction. 

But Glenn wants one.

There’s a reason Henry’s smoking with him. He wouldn’t compromise his morals for just _anyone_ , after all, and Glenn is so good at getting on his nerves already. Is losing this momentary peace worth the self sabotage? 

Glenn decides _Hell Yes_ and kicks his legs up and over Henry’s lap. 

Henry raises an eyebrow.

Glenn shrugs. 

If Henry wants him off, he'll ask. But he doesn't. He goes back to looking out the window. 

“How’s it feel?”

Henry takes a swig from his Hydro Flask. “Warm. Fuzzy. Focused.”

“It’s really good for anxiety,” Glenn says, not unkindly. His nails brush the back of Henry’s neck. His hair has grown, unruly and unwashed, since the start of their adventure. He has no idea how it still looks so glossy and soft. “And since everything seems to make you anxious…”

Henry exhales, flicking the ash of the joint over Glenn’s skinny jeans. “ _You_ make me anxious.”

“You make me laugh.”

Henry looks at him, and Glenn does just that: laugh. Every word from their lips falls so soft on the night air. The wind ruffles his hair through the window. He hums an absent tune under his breath. 

He catches the glint of Darryl’s sunglasses in the rearview mirror, lip curled downward. Whether it’s the smell or the smirk is anybody’s guess. Glenn prides himself on eliciting reactions and, just for the hell of it, sticks his tongue out.

Apparently, so is Henry, because when he settles his hand on Glenn’s knee, it jerks out from under him.

“Uh, sorry, I didn’t, I should’ve asked—” 

“Nah, man, all good all good all good. Just caught me by surprise.”

Henry’s fingertips trace the scarred skin of his knee exposed by the tear in his jeans. His touch burns in the night air.

Glenn’s had his fair share of interactions with men in backseats across the years. Hotel rooms, bar bathrooms, the torn seats of any given tour van—you name it. It’s easier because men produce an entirely different expression of intimacy than he’s used to. 

Henry wouldn’t approve of the compartmentalization of gender in Glenn’s head (and how does he know the ambiguity that drives Henry crazy), but it’s quite simple: men aren’t like Morgan. So he doesn’t have to worry about freaking out about it. It’s less Glenn being gay and more necessity. Everyone’s got to have intimacy, right? This is how he gets his fix. It’s just like anything else. Henry is his best bet, since Ron is deeply in love and Darryl is deeply repressed (Henry being a nervous man in a functioning polyamorous marriage is both of those things). 

But the way Henry looks at him shrinks the words in his mouth. His leg hair is soft, his smile is kind, and the back of his neck slots Glenn’s palm like it was made to fit there. 

It’s hard to make it a gender thing when Henry is just… _Henry_.

Glenn got more than he bargained for, hot palm branding his knee, the other resting on his ankle. He contemplates shifting his feet back but this is quite comfortable. He risks it all to run his hand through Henry’s hair, nails sculpting the scalp. 

Henry breathes out and ducks his head. Hooded green eyes meet his and Glenn licks his lips. Success. 

He can work with this, he thinks, kneading the back of Henry’s neck. This will get it out of his system. 

His mouth parts, panting open. He starts to say something, ask something, and Glenn shushes him with a single finger.

“Don’t ruin it,” he utters. He doesn’t want whatever good favor or well-intentioned friendship will fall out. There's no room for feelings in the backseat. That’s not what this is. That’s not why they’re here.

Henry’s jaw decidedly clicks shut.


End file.
